


Some Kind of Redemption

by inkcharm



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst, F/M, Fury Road AU, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pregnancy, Sexual Slavery, Sexual Violence, Slavery, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-05 04:33:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4166052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkcharm/pseuds/inkcharm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fury Road AU. They are not Things. They are not Dolls. They will not be used anymore. Fenris and the other slaves want out. Fenris' sister drives the war rig. A human called Hawke reluctantly helps. Maybe, just maybe, they will all find some sort of redemption, or die in their furious pursuit of freedom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Fic will mostly be Fenris' POV, but the prologue is Varania's POV to flesh out surrounding circumstances a bit for those two. 
> 
> Rough character transfer:  
> Wives = Dolls (not all female, but all elven) = Fenris, Merrill, Velanna, Zevran  
> Furiosa = Varania  
> Max = Hawke  
> Immortan Joe = Danarius (and literally no one was surprised)

Varania gains her freedom not because she's grown too old or lost her appeal in a different way, the way these things usually go. No, she's still young enough and beautiful enough with her rather fair skin and bright red hair. Not a strand of grey, not a line on her face, that would warrant turning her out into the wasteland, no longer fit to wear the flimsy white of Danarius' Dolls and serve in his private quarter. No disfigurations either. Like all Dolls she's well protected, far removed from any harm. Her looks have not become obsolote, as Shianni's did the day Varania arrived and Danarius believed one redhead was quite enough. He appreciates variety. She also hasn't displeased him.

 

No.

 

No, the day Varania is released from her existence as a slave, an object, a Doll, is the day her little brother grows old enough to appeal to Danarius. And so he is collared, and takes her place.

 

They only see one another once in passing when it happens. He's 15, all long legs and wide eyes, much darker in skin than she is, with a mop of black hair. She'd told him to stay out of sight five years ago, when her own developing body had caught attentions. Had told him to make himself unappealing. Born an elf, he could never be a War Boy, broken in different ways, but perhaps he would be lucky – remain invisible, poor, and die unnoticed and young. No such luck.

 

Now he will get a name. Will be branded on his face, the back of his neck or between his thighs, clad in almost see-through white and allowed to live in the lap of luxury.

 

The price is insignificant – merely his existence.

 

Varania holds his gaze, and chokes back words. Wants to trade places with him again immediately, because being nothing has to be worse than not knowing how to be something, doesn't it? How dare he grow up handsome despite her warnings? How dare he draw Danarius' eye, casting her out of easy misery into difficult freedom? It's not his fault, and yet Varania has to blame him a little, because the alternative is to break apart knowing exactly what he will suffer through.

 

That night she finds no sleep on the cot she's been assigned, paralyzed by fear of what freedom entails. It's a dark weight pressing down on her, squeezing the air out of her lungs. There are no other elves curled up around her on a massive, soft bed. The air is filthy. She has a future, and that's the most terrifying thing she could have ever imagined. She twists onto her side, trying to find some peace of mind. But how could she, when she has not seen her brother in five years, and will likely not see him until he's tossed out of Danarius' service years from now, if she even survives that long. Varania doesn't even know what his voice sounds like now. And yet she knows exactly what his screams would sound like tonight.

 

It's three years later that Varania catches a glimpse.

 

Her own red hair is shorn short. A prosthetic has replaced her left arm. Freedom is still agony, and the way she longs for the simply days of being a Doll disgust her. She's working as a mechanic now, and occasionally makes deliveries. She delivers a new Doll today, a thin girl with skin as white as milk, and hair as black as tar. Elven, because what else would she be. Someone has to replace Seranni, who died in child birth and took the babe with her. Varania didn't know her long enough before being released to mourn her now, and yet she feels a strange pang of regret. Over her death, or over the kind of work Varania's doing these days, she's not sure.

 

The air is different up here, and it seems to delight the little bird of a woman at Varania's side. Poor thing has no idea what life holds in store for her. The Dolls are lingering around in silence, more naked than dressed in white, revealing cloth.

 

It takes her a long time to recognize her brother.

 

Except there's almost nothing left that looks like the darling boy she yelled at never to draw a human's eye when they dragged her out of the hovel in which their mother had died.

 

Danarius likes to improve his Dolls, and tattoos are an easy way to achieve this. Varania is one of the few whose face remained bare, although she bears his designs elsewhere, and will never be able to remove him from her skin. Most of them are branded in easily visible places. The face, bare arms, ankles. The white lines curling around her brother's dark skin are a shock, winding over his arms, around his calves, where the skin is still reddened. His markings are an ongoing process, then, which is unusual in itself. And his hair... He's grown it out, but there's already plenty of white mixed in with soot black.

 

He's not going to last. Danarius won't care that he's only 18 when his hair is already turning white. He'll be discarded. She'll deliver his replacement up here, because that's what she does now, apparently.

 

Danarius should have kept her. Her little brother, the way she remembers him, is strong beyond his age, but it's glaringly obvious in the scowling line between his brows that he's not made to last. And yet he has the audacity to look at her with thinly veiled disgust. Varania meets the stare, wonders if he even recognizes her. Dares him, silently, to accept responsibility for her fate, the freedom he forced upon her. The luxury he grabbed for himself.

 

And yet as the elven woman is taken from Varania's grip, she knows deep down inside that the only true luxury she had up here was the knowledge that her little brother was nameless and safe and far away from Danarius. And because she's free to go, she looks away from him and leaves this place.

 

That's not her brother up there. It's just a Doll.

 

Just what she used to be.

 

 


	2. What Is And Should Not Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fury Road AU. They are not Things. They are not Dolls. They will not be used anymore. Fenris and the other slaves want out. Fenris' sister drives the war rig. A human called Hawke reluctantly helps. Maybe, just maybe, they will all find some sort of redemption, or die in their furious pursuit of freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the crappy formatting. I won't have Internet until next Friday, but I'm impatient to share this, so I'm uploading it from my phone. That means you get nine pages of fic, but at the price of poor formatting. I hope you can forgive that ;) 
> 
> Enjoy the first proper chapter!

His right hand this time. The needle dances across his skin mercilessly, over his wrist, palm, and up the length of his index finger in a steady line, just much too slowly for comfort. Merrill slips the cloth of her belt between his lips so he doesn't bite his tongue, and pulls his head into her lap. Her face is still red and puffy, the markings on her own pale skin fresh and tender. They highlight her wide eyes.

Fenris thinks she's older than him, but also that she feels younger. It matters very little in this place. What matters right now is his punishment. He's earned it, and he's going to own it. He'll take the pain and let it seep through his skin to fester in his guts and let him rot, turn him ugly from the inside out until Danarius finds nothing about him pleasing anymore, not even the elaborate decorations he has the Bringer of Pain so painfully etch into Fenris’ skin.

Their rebellions come in many different shapes and forms. Merrill gets her hands dirty in the soil to feel where those rare splashes of green hail from, and cares about the rest of them. Zevran flirts with his fellow Dolls, and makes shivs out of scraps. Velanna snarls and spits and screams, and tells soft stories of her sister when she doesn't. Fenris vies for punishments, takes the pain and lets it fester into anger. They all serve, because stuck at the very top of Danarius' fortress and surrounded by guards, there's little choice and a distinct lack of alternatives that involve survival.

His index finger throbs. Fenris grunts through the belt as the needle scratches over his inner wrist, connects the new line to the pattern already snaking around his arm. Merrill cards her fingers through his hair, and Zevran's fingers dig into his calf. The tattoos there are still tender, too, not quite healed off yet. Zevran knows this. He's tossing Fenris a smirk and digs in a little further. The younger elf is grateful, even if he scowls. Zevran sometimes tells him to stop doing that, words lilting in a sing song around his accent. After all, scowls will just lead to wrinkles. Fenris can't wait. He wants to look rough, not pretty. He wants to make others flinch, not leer.

The redhead hasn't flinched, yesterday. When she brought them Merrill, whose silent tears after her initiation have been as difficult for Zevran and Velanna to swallow as Fenris' screams three years ago.

Velanna paces just outside of Fenris' currently limited field of vision. He can hear her bare feet on the stone, though. Marethari will scold her for pacing, old and impossibly still alive, and harsh in order to stay that way yet. Always dictating how proper Dolls should behave. She doesn't see them as people either, just as pets not yet house trained.

The needle stings into the soft flesh in the middle of Fenris' palm again. Merrill breathes a soft 'oh' when she notices a clump of black hair coming out of his scalp with her motion. Zevran maintains fingernails that are just a little too long to be practical, and digs them right into a swirl on the inside of Fenris' right knee.

It's good.

It's all good.

He doesn't know the name she's been given, that woman who used to be his sister and then became a Doll, and now is... something else. Free because Fenris wears her collar. Literally. It has letters engraved on the inside, and sometimes he hooks his fingers in between the metal and his skin, runs the tip along those letters as if they'd mean anything to him, as if he could decipher them. Danarius wants his Dolls entertaining, not educated. Not like that. He learned four languages these past three years, yet could not read a single word of either one. So Fenris doesn't know what the letters on the inside of his collar say, what name they'd read. What name she's been given and likely still wears, because what else are you going to do with a name once it’s been beating into your bent back? Sister is not a proper name. And neither is Brother. They're just what you call someone you wouldn't dare give a name to, because what use is there when they die off much too quickly anyway.

You don't get attached, you don't get that luxury. Except there's nothing but a strange form of attachment up here, and Fenris' world is still lilting on the wrong axis, out of balance. He's a Doll, a thing to be used, and yet he's gained so much here. A name. Pain, his own pain. A people, made up of the four of them.

His middle finger is done, and the needle leaves. Ink has to be refilled. When the Bringer of Pain turns away, Velanna darts forwards, slips her hand into his right one and squeezes with hard eyes. Fenris squeezes back so tightly he nearly passes out from the burn. Zevran distracts him by running his fingers along that tender calf, and Merrill places a cool hand on his forehead instead of risking more of the black strands coming out.

Marethari coldly called it a condition back when Danarius demanded an explanation. Stress or depression or anxiety or malnourishment slowly but surely making his hair fall out, and grow back white because his body is all kinds of out of balance. Fenris would call it a victory. Marethari tried to convince Danarius to get rid of him because he won't last, but their master only laughed at that. Fenris thinks Marethari is old and bitter and doesn't particularly care for anything beyond her own rules. Perhaps she feels as though she has a semblance of power.

The redhead hasn't recognized him at first. He's not sure how he feels about that. She's not a Doll anymore, but she used to be. Now she brings Dolls. She has fewer limbs than he thinks there should have been, can't picture Danarius wanting a Doll missing something other than their will, which he likes to erode in some, but break in others.

Fenris barely remembers the half-starved, slow stumble towards death that was his existence before coming here, constantly dehydrated, filthy and battling sickness. He's still thin, they all are, even for elves, but he's not dying anymore. At least not quite so immediately. Still, even through that haze he thinks he remembers her – his sister – with a full set of limbs.

Velanna darts away when the Bringer of Pain returns, and Fenris closes his eyes as the needle descends once more with its white ink. Two fingers done. Touching anything, anyone, in the near future with that hand will be utter agony, and that shouldn't please Fenris as much as it does.

This is his, his, his alone. Danarius has these marks put on him to spread his ownership, make sure his pet understands that he’s being claimed inch by inch until nothing of himself remains, but Fenris wants them, fights for them the only way he knows how to, and uses them the only way he can. They're not a reminder not to bite the hand that feeds, but a reminder that he's not painted wood with strings attached.

Alive.

Just so.

 

* * *

 

He grips the headboard tightly with his right hand when he serves that night.

Velanna is the one who washes him after, because Merrill is yet too sweet, and Zevran's bravado doesn't always hold up. This way Fenris knows the hands sifting dead, black strands out of his hair won't tremble.

He's transferred his grip from the headboard to the rim of the tub, white-knuckles it and thinks the water he's sitting in would keep a dozen 15 year old versions of himself alive for a year.

Velanna grips his chin, not quite hard enough to bruise but almost, and holds his gaze. Lets him go only when she’s certain there's still someone in there behind green eyes, that she's not wasting her energy cleaning someone who died inside.

Fenris doesn't want to die. He just wants.

 

* * *

 

The redhead is his sister, but what does that even mean?

There's something ugly and dark in Velanna when she talks about Seranni, and that ugliness, that darkness, it pleases Fenris a great deal. It's similar to the rot in his own gut. He can't be sweet and caring like Merrill, or flippant and crude like Zevran. It's quite alright. Velanna and him can probably be angry and bitter enough for all of them and then some, though she's definitely louder about it than he is usually. Ranting, getting up close and into everyone's face, berating them, trying to get something out of them. It's good. It keeps Fenris uneasy and on edge. Danarius is pleased that Fenris moves on the balls of his feet like a dancer, when in truth the elf just wants to be ready to lunge.

Neither Zevran nor Merrill have siblings that they remember. Fenris isn't sure his sister counts, because he barely recalls her. Ten when she was taken up, when he thought she was worth saving and failed to scar his face for his own protection.

Now he's here, and she's free to roam the spaces beneath. He considers that a gift. Freedom to die in the dirt is still freedom. A luxury he won't be able to reclaim until Danarius tires of him, which despite Fenris' best efforts to balance rebellion and survival seems not to be in the cards for him anytime soon. He's the favorite, and were he just a little more self-reflective, he'd realize that he made himself an entertaining challenge. Danarius is endlessly amused at a Doll refusing to be bent into proper shape.

The sad thing, the thing that provokes pity and sympathy and even a sick sense of loyalty in some Dolls is that their master genuinely cares for them in his own twisted way. Danarius has no intention of damaging his property, although his definition of the term damage could stand to be adjusted. Fenris is well aware of the danger the man poses as their master. It would be oh so very easy to give in to his praise and rewards. To be a good, pliant Doll, a perfectly obedient slave, to just hold still and give in to the illusion of being loved and cared for.

Fenris did that, once. At first. Thinking Seranni had the right of it, except by now he knows she was misguided. It's a nice thought to give up resistance and feel no pain anymore, except that's a different kind of suicide, and Fenris comes from the dirt, where survival is all he got to learn about. He’s learned about himself that he hates standing still, needs to move to remember he’s alive.

Zevran massages his recently tattooed hand until Fenris hisses. Then he just holds it for a while. Marethari drones on about table manners. There are standards Danarius expects his Dolls to conform to.

Merrill. Brought in here by the redhead, who is his sister, whose collar sits around his throat with a name he can't decipher. There's something skittering across the very outskirts of Fenris' mind, so he pushes it aside and instead focuses on lightly scratching his fingers down the back of Merrill's neck. An idea that can't quite take root yet, because like the wasteland outside, Fenris' mind is deadly, but nearly barren. As the wind shifts the sand, his mind is constantly shifting his thoughts, wiping away anything that doesn't seem useful or important immediately. It gets buried. Might resurface later. Might lay forgotten.

Ideas are dangerous – to give in to Danarius is an idea, after all. A still mind is as dead as a still body, so Fenris tries not to dwell too much. Doesn’t stay on the redhead, but allows her to drift through his thoughts occasionally.

Zevran nudges him and picks up the massage once more, just so he can get to see Fenris bare his teeth. He's not disappointed. Velanna roll her eyes so hard they're all surprised they swivel back at all. Merrill leans against her and murmurs her concern about that, which lightens the mood a little. Marethari demands silence.

Fenris knows the old woman's life would be easier if the Dolls were better behaved. She gets whipped for their slip ups and imperfections. He doesn't care. Compassion is dangerous, will break Merrill before Danarius does, kill Marethari if she ever gives in to it, and Fenris is glad he himself appears to simply lack the trait.

He didn’t his sister for five years. Then briefly glimpsed her as he was being collared. Nothing more for the following three years again, hoping against hope she'd have done herself a favor and made something of her freedom. Instead he finds her doing... this. One of Danarius' creatures by her own choice instead of her former master’s. Then again, his cynicism is as foolish as his hopes. What else is there to do after all, if one rules death out as a viable option? Without access to wheels, there is nothing but Danarius for insurmountable miles upon miles.

Fenris pulls his hand from Zevran's loose grasp, glowers at the white lines decorating his palm. Curls his fingers to test the pain, a constant ache somewhere on his skin, as new additions are made regularly before the old ones have stopped being tender. It helps him cling to that feeble shred of self that he has. With the additions having been made to his hand, touching anything is currently more than just uncomfortable. So Fenris waits for Zevran to pull a knee up to his chest, then curls his hand around it.

 

* * *

 

There are bruises forming on her hips, and Fenris almost wishes to trade places with Velanna or Zevran. But that's not how this works. They're all they have here, because to be a Doll is to be lonely. They all have to be there for one another. He can't exclude himself from that just because he's not sure how to handle Merrill's bruises or her silent tears. During the day she babbles, which grates on his nerves, but because of that her silences are so much harder to take.

It's easier with the others. Mostly because they've been here longer than he has, while Merrill is still new, tender, and sweet in ways they aren't anymore. Were it Zevran, Fenris could do his task in silence and trust the other elf to make the quips he needs to stay standing upright. And with Velanna, he can add his bitterness to her vicious outbursts of righteous anger. When it's him, they know to touch him as much as necessary and as little as possible, because he keeps things on the inside in different ways than Zevran. Not tucked beneath endless layers of glib humor and friendly flirtation, but sharpened into hatred. Merrill, it seems, needs to let things out instead of swallowing them down like shards of metal with ragged edges, only there's no anger with her. Just those silent tears and empty eyes.

Fenris won't let her slip away, though. They are Danarius' Dolls, but that doesn't mean he'll let her become a doll, no matter how much she unnerves him. No longer able to witness her tears, Fenris kneels in front of her instead, one hand on her thigh to keep her steady – carefully placed beneath the hand shaped bruise, of course. He has sense enough for that, at least. He's slower and more careful than he'd be with Zevran or Velanna when he wets the cloth, squeezes out excess water and then reaches between her legs to clean her. She'll get a bath after.

There's little they can do to avoid pregnancy, but they like to think that this might help at least a little. Helps with feeling a little more clean at any rate. To Merrill's credit, she doesn't flinch from his touch or the cool cloth. And whatever hang-ups he has with her naivety and babbling, he treats her as kindly as he can in this.

 

* * *

 

Merrill likes to braid his hair. On good days, he lets her. On bad days he snarls at her. Fenris doesn’t feel sorry for it, and Merrill in turn doesn’t feel wounded by his more vicious moods. She knows that when he snarls, he’s feeling wounded himself. His honest cruelties are delivered with deadly calm. Those he tries to regret, because those cut his companions. He’s not always successful in feeling for them, not when there is so much to feel for himself. Perhaps that makes him a bad person. They don’t seem to think so, but Fenris isn’t sure if a group as damaged as theirs can make accurate assessments in that regard.

Today is not a good day. There will be no braid thumping against his back with every step like a second heartbeat, like a living thing. Today Fenris’ command is to simply hold still.

He’s on all fours in front of Danarius’ chair, his master’s feet propped on back.

Today he’s not an elf, not a person, just a foot rest.

Merrill is dancing to the tune of Velanna’s mechanical flute and Zevran’s guitar. The atmosphere is of grim determination. Not that Danarius is aware – he’s enjoying himself thoroughly. But all it’d take for that to crumble would be one misstep, one wrong breath affecting the tune, one finger slipping, one arm trembling.

A drop of sweat trickles down the length of Fenris’ nose, clings to the tip for a moment and then falls. He’s been looking at the same part of the stone floor for three hours now, can’t even hear the music over the way his muscles are screaming. He can’t move, can hardly breathe because he’s still, stopped, bent and bowed. Perhaps he’s already snapped in half and just failed to notice. He couldn’t flex his fingers or curl his toes if he tried. They’ve long gone numb.

Danarius does this sometimes, uses them as other objects than toys for his physical pleasure. A plate to eat off of, a chair, a foot rest, a tray,

Water splatters down onto the stones not far from Fenris’ fingertips. It’s grown too warm to appeal to Danarius taste buds. He sends Hadriana to fetch more. The wretched creature used to be a breeder. How many War Boys she spat out, no one knows, but the number has to be significant for her to still be alive instead of dying the only death elves and female humans are granted – a lonely, miserable one, without the supposed glory of Valhalla the War Boys scream so furiously about. Instead, her sickly body is being held together by tape and staple. To keep her around provides amusement for Danarius, especially as she believes herself to be chosen. As if birthing sickly girls to be killed or raised into brood mothers, and sickly boys to be tortured and broken and sent to death warrants any sort of glory. Still she delights in the waste of water, delights in knowing that Fenris’ throat tightens.

She can’t have them, the chastity devices keeping her from male or female genitalia to play with. It doesn’t mean she can’t have her own kind of cruel fun with them now that she’s finally gained access to creatures that are less. Unable to hurt them in any significant way lest she leave marks, she instead hounds their sleep, mocks them, taints their meals.

And Fenris can’t do anything but hold still when Hadriana makes sure some more water spatters down just close enough for him to see, but too far away to cool the ache that was once a body, and is now a commodity.

 

* * *

 

Fenris sees the redhead again months later when she's made Imperator. She's summoned up into the cage Danarius calls his quarters, where he keeps something green and cups of stained blue glass to fill with water, and dolls wrapped in white cloth.

She doesn't even look like him. Fenris thinks his skin has always been this dark, though it used to be a bit darker because of the dirt. Hers is pale. The stubble of hair still visible on her scalp is red, not black or white. Still. Fenris first looked into a mirror when he was 15 and presented to Danarius. The same shock of recognition and wonder makes his chest feel tight when he looks at her now. They're differently colored, but their eyes are the same, their faces not identical but similar. It's there. He can see it.

Danarius sees it, too. Perhaps for the first time – according to his own praise, the moment he saw Fenris, he had to have him, and got rid of the elf with the unhappiest features. Fenris can see that, too. His sister has a softer face than him or even Velanna, but there's something in the firm set of her mouth and the determined slant of her eyes that makes her look harder than them. At any rate, this seems to be the first time Danarius notices he gave her collar to her little brother. He laughs, hooks his fingers beneath the metal and pulls Fenris forwards like an object to be shown off, until the siblings stand almost nose to nose.

She smells like sweat and dirt and grease. He smells like his master. Both are jealous of one another.

Had she kept her looks, she might have been collared again, just for the novelty. There's a reason Seranni and Velanna were of interest to Danarius despite their individually plain looks compared to his usual preferences. But Seranni is dead, and now his sister looks like a warrior, not a Doll, and Danarius doesn't desire that. Not the way he desires his little wolf with its black fur by now generously streaked with white.

She's a warrior. She's an Imperator.

Perhaps he saved her after all.

 

* * *

 

Velanna curses him viciously. Fenris is barely aware. Doesn't hear Zevran's frantic babbling either. Antivan, not Common. Merrill pleads with the other female to go easy on him, but they all know she can't afford to do that. There's little time, and Fenris can't be seen like this.

So Velanna snarls at him and pushes his head under once more. Fenris is kneeling on the floor in front of the tub. Still for once not because of his orders, but because he forgot how to keep in motion. She's gone now, the redhead whose name he doesn't know. The newly appointed Imperator. Risen in rank so fast while all he's done is move in circles on the balls of his feet. Where has that gotten him? Has he been standing still all this time without knowing it? He's a fool to have thought his little rebellions to have any sort of impact at all. As long as he's here, he doesn't matter.

Zevran pulls on his shoulders, gets him up because Fenris isn't struggling against Velanna's grip the way he should. And for the time being, Merrill gets the other woman to pause, then grasps Fenris' face with gentle hands. There's pity in her eyes, and he doesn't need that. He needs to know the redhead's name so he can say it out loud. To her face. In person. So he can lunge at what's skittering across his mind, not to hold it down, but to cling to it and ride it out. Cling to it. Cling to her. Did he do that before she was taken? He can't quite recall. She might, she was older then. Is still older now. What that means he doesn't know.

She won't die. She's alive and a warrior and an Imperator. That means power. That means she has a chance not to die. That means... something.

Fenris looks less and less like his sibling with every passing day, with every white swirl and line and dot added to his darker skin. This attempt to bridge the chasm between them was poorly thought out, but something took hold of his hands. So when the others slept he snuck into the bathing chambers, grabbed at black strands, fewer every day, and pulled, pulled, pulled. Black and white are now lying in curls around his knees, and the water is stained red.

It doesn't stay in his hair.

Velanna scrubs away every fresh trickle until it stops.

They use one of Zevran's makeshift blades to chop off the ruins of his hair. It can be explained. Danarius is aware of the black hair falling out, and delights in the white that grows in instead. He believes Fenris' body is marking itself the way Danarius is having Fenris marked with white ink. He might still be angry of course, since he likes to have more to grab onto than Fenris is left with.

He'll take the punishment. He'll take it all, and make it his, because he bleeds as red as his sister's hair.

 

* * *

 

Zevran holds back Velanna's hair as she empties her stomach yet again. Despite the arid heat, Fenris feels cold. He averts his eyes, crosses his arms. It doesn't help. Dread is seeping into his bones like a disease, and shifting from one foot to the other doesn't help. Merrill has tears in her eyes, and only the thing they've just learned is keeping Fenris from snapping at her to pull herself together.

He wants to say this isn't her burden, but that's not true. This is their burden.

They will all carry that child growing in Velanna, and they will all lose it to Danarius if it's male and healthy, or to death if it's female or not healthy or stillborn or shows too many signs of its elf blood. They will all suffer in the coming months, because this might as well have been a death sentence for Velanna. Chances are she won't survive the birth. And if she does, chances are the birth won't please Danarius.

Their master likes to pretend he cares for his Dolls as he does for all his prized possessions. But he cares more about himself, and anything growing in a female Doll is his by extension. So should Velanna taint the child, should she not birth a healthy male heir for Danarius, she will suffer for it.

Velanna is what he lost when his big sister was taken.

He's not a child anymore now. His only way to save the redhead had been to fail to cut his face and hope he'd grow up pretty enough to follow her. But now... now he doesn't have to fight for survival. Now he can swallow and feel the pain of lines wandering up his neck. Now he has time to think.

Moving has never been this easy, and there is a lot of ground to cover.

 

* * *

 

They are Dolls. They are things. They are objects to be used. They are kept, decorated, used, abused, hurt, handled, displayed.

They should not be.

 

* * *

 

Fenris doesn't tell them, not yet. Perhaps there is compassion in him, perhaps he cannot bear to raise hopes and crush them. He helps Velanna hide her pregnancy for now, because they all know she might still lose the child. He does not rebel against Danarius, lets their master think this Doll broke beautifully. Fenris degrades himself to gain a single boon, and asks to be alone with the Imperator. Danarius pulls on Fenris' short white hair with one hand, and rubs the thumb of the other up and down the elf's throat until his pretty big eyes are shiny and wet. Fenris lets it happen, doesn't hold them back. He doesn't need more markings right now. After, certainly. But now he just needs Danarius to indulge him.

He should not be a doll, a thing, an object, but for now he is. For Velanna. For the redhead. For Merrill and Zevran. For himself.

Danarius likes to hear himself talk. He gloats over his pretty little wolf, his perfect, favorite slave. He is a kind master, he says, so he'll let Fenris meet the Imperator. He calls her by the name he gave her.

The tear slipping down Fenris' cheek is not one of pain.

 

* * *

 

The door clicks shut behind them, and for a moment, Fenris can't move.

It can all still crumble in his hands, so he keeps his face carefully neutral. This time he won't save her, but propose ruining the life she's built for herself. She has power now. She drives the war rig. She is alive. She can ruin him.

Her eyes slide to his throat, to the fresh white markings beneath her collar, to the very faint purple bruises that show her what he is and what he does.

There's judgment in her eyes, or perhaps jealousy, or maybe even pity, but Fenris raises his chin. Lets her look. He has no shame, discarded that more than five years ago when he was taken. Perhaps he never learned to have it, being nothing more than an elf underneath the magister's boot.

He plans to speak calmly, tell her of the situation, propose his plan. Put his existence in her hands, because to even think it is treason. But she's the only link he has, the only chance, and it has to mean something that her last words to him were to cut his darling face so no one would ever touch him. It has to mean something that she once called him Brother and he once called her Sister, and now they're strangers with similar features who both tried to save the other years ago.

But then she scoffs. “What do you want, Doll?” Her voice trembles, she's trying to build a wall he can't climb, so he does what he prepared for all these years, and lunges. Grasps her shoulders and shoves her against the wall, lets her try to punch him – good, good, she's not worried about preserving him, about keeping him pretty for someone else's pleasure, and then they're nose to nose.

Fenris bites his words at her, the snarl of an entire wolf pack at his throat, the ones who came before him, the ones who will come after him, the ones who are here with him, and she stills, because it's her own voice speaking back to her, layered underneath his dark and rough one:

“We are not things, Varania.”

 


	3. How It Feels To Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fury Road AU. His sister drives the war rig. Fenris has to convince himself, her, and the others that this means something for all of them. To move forwards means to sidestep obstacles, and hope weighs heavy on those who dare embrace it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rough character transfer:  
> Wives = Dolls (not all female, but all elven) = Fenris, Merrill, Velanna, Zevran  
> Furiosa = Varania  
> Max = Hawke  
> Immortan Joe = Danarius (and literally no one was surprised)

_ Varania. _ ****

 

The name sits oddly on his tongue, like food he's never tasted before. Fenris hasn't dared try it on for size before meeting her, feeling like the thin air wouldn't deserve to hear him say it for the first time. Now they're both equally shocked into a thick, tense silence. He can't quite decide whether he's more surprised by the weight of her name, or how bluntly he's drawn the line in the dirt they've both come from.

 

Fenris' hands are still curled around her shoulders, and Varania slowly reaches up to wrap her own around his wrists. Tight enough to be uncomfortable, but he doesn't pull away. Dares her to hurt him. Dares her to not to.

 

_We are not things, Varania._

 

“Aren't you?“

 

They are. They should not be. Therefore...

 

“I'm _not_ a thing.“ 

 

And there it is, the crack in his voice, somewhere between ugly fury and painful despair. He needs her to believe this about him, because otherwise it will all come crumbling down once more around him, the shaky idea he’s clutched so tightly to his chest lest it skitter away from his mind like just another sand dune on the run.

 

He’s not a thing, despite what everyone else believes. He’s a person, deep down inside. Isn’t he? Some white markings do not make him a thing… a doll to be played with.

 

Varania lets go of his thin wrists, and Fenris in turn slowly lets his hands drop from her bony shoulders. There’s a strength there that he’s not sure she’s gained recently or has always possessed. But how strong is she, really, when right now she can’t even quite look at him.

 

Their eyes are not the same shade, and yet they’re still the same in all the ways that count.

 

Fenris snorts in disgust, turns away from her. Stalks a few steps towards the opposite wall, then turns around, whirls on her. She’s here because Danarius requested it, and Danarius requested it because he knows that good slaves deserve a boon every once in a while. It’s why he lets the water run for short bursts. Give his subjects a taste of what they crave – ensure they will eventually come back for more, no matter how often he whips them in the mean time.

 

Dolls do not get whipped. Fenris isn’t sure what’s done to them instead is better or worse.

 

“You drive the war rig now,” he presses on, voice hard. This isn’t how he planned to approach this at all, but he’s caught in a landslide, can’t stop his heart from beating to the rhythm of war drums when she smells of oil and dust and far horizons.

 

Varania’s eyes snap to his at those words again at last, and Fenris braces himself against her stare. Refuses to be cowed by his own blood, the woman who is his sister, the woman whose place he took. Whom he saved and ruined. He clenches his fist, but the ache has faded, and because he’s been too good in order to gain this boon, no new markings have been added, no pain to anchor his fury within properly. Plenty of anger still rotting away in his bones, but without the chronic pain, it’s difficult to summon it to the forefront. Especially when the hardness in her gaze makes something cold trickle down his spine.

 

“I worked hard for that.”

 

And there it is. She hasn’t caught onto his plan just yet – Varania is suspicious and protective of the life she’s carved out for herself. The first instinct she has is that Fenris intends to take it away, just like he took her previous life.

 

It’s almost funny. She still thinks he has the power to do anything but bow and bend, when no one but Danarius has any power here. But Fenris supposes that’s just the way it should be. The illusion of other slaves being better off. Breeding misgivings that prevent them from rotting together to claw Danarius’ eyes out. It works, too. Fenris isn’t interested in saving anyone but those immediately around him. He doesn’t have the luxury of caring about those who’ll come after him, and those who’ll die in Danarius’ wrath when he tries to carve himself a path towards death in freedom as opposed to captivity.

 

“You drive the war rig,” he repeats, stepping closer again. Varania doesn’t back down, and they end up nearly nose to nose again.

 

They stand there and stare at one another for the longest while. Fenris still half expects her to sell him out for all of this, or to laugh in his face and leave, let him rot. Didn’t he choose this existence by not cutting his own face like she told him to all those years ago? Didn’t he force her out into the misery of freedom, taking away the deceptive ease of serving in Danarius’ bed?

 

He takes her in; the red hair cut to almost nothing, practicality over looks. The faded remains of grease she regularly smears over her forehead and around her eyes. The way she looks tired and old far beyond her years. And she in turn looks at him, at the unnatural white of his hair, the swirling lines of white forever marking him someone else’s property, the unbridled hatred in his eyes… hatred that’s not directed at her.

 

And then Varania blinks, eyes widening. She seems surprised to realize something. “I drive the war rig,” she echoes slowly, grim line of her mouth softening as gears turn in her mind.

 

Fenris wants to bark laughter in her face, but he’s not sure he’d still know how.

 

* * *

 

In another life, one that seems surreal looking back to it now, Varania taught Fenris many things. How to survive, mostly, in all the little ways elves need to mind in order not to get crushed beneath some human's boot. How to get by without food and water for long stretches of time. Which humans will kick you to death, and which ones will stop halfway there. How to move across sand so hot it blisters the soles of naked feet, how to speak and how to remain so silent as to go utterly unnoticed.

 

Now when they meet, she teaches him other ways to survive. His fingers are dexterous, because in Danarius’ quarters there’s little else to do but learn to play instruments, paint, embroider his robes, once colorful and now oh so faded. Fenris is good with his hands. How to take apart a gun, put it back together, load it – that comes to him quite easily.

 

A gun is merely the sum of its parts, quite like he could separate himself into limbs and digits and bones were he so inclined. Neither of them know the names of the parts. Varania is self taught, because after she stopped being a Doll she’s encountered a world unwilling to hand her anything. So Fenris doesn’t learn the names of the parts either, and doesn’t care.

 

He needs to know how to use a gun, that’s all there is to it.

 

Because his sister drives the war rig, and Fenris intends to hitch a ride, no matter the cost.

 

* * *

 

“You should be more careful with yourself,” Merrill comments, a smile in her voice.

 

It’s her turn to clean Fenris, and he just grunts in response. He’s sitting in the tub, chin resting on his knees, and watches Merrill scrub between his fingers. The tips are reddened. There’s a small nick on his thumb. Neither comes from Danarius, and Merrill seems utterly puzzled.

 

Her smile widens. “No matter. We still have some of that salve, this should be gone by tomorrow.”

 

That’s when she grows uneasy, and he can tell. It’s not like Fenris to just let her talk like this, to just let her work on him like this. He snarls more, especially so after serving Danarius. It’s only gotten worse since they’ve found out about Velanna, and Fenris is well aware, something inside of him protective and territorial and always on edge, always ready to fight. Still. Right now he just stares at Merrill. Wonders if she’s ready to hear about the plan, or if it would be more prudent to wait. Perhaps tell the others first.

 

Except… he’s not good with enthusiasm. He’s raw determination, edges made harsh by anger. He can’t convince them if they doubt. The only person he has to convince is Merrill, and if the others balk at first, she can talk them into compliance. There's little room for options – they need to join him, because their silence isn't enough.

 

Convincing others of his intentions is a task which he already loathes, but it’s a necessary part of the plan. So he wraps his fingers around her thin wrist to make her shut up now. Fenris sits up, stretches so he can lean on the rim of the tub, much closer to Merrill’s face than he’s usually ever comfortable with.

 

“My sister drives the war rig.”

 

And once again, there’s nothing more than staring. Merrill’s pulse flutters under his thumb like a trapped bird, and Fenris tightens his grip. He’s a wolf sinking his teeth into prey, intent on dragging it to his hideout. But if push comes to shove he can discard her just as easily.

 

She’ll die before selling Varania and him out.

 

“Oh, the nice woman who brought me here? Yes, I remember she's been made Imperator. It's good for her, isn't it. And your sister? Why I didn't know you had siblings, Fenris, you talk so very little of yourself. Well, I'm glad to hear it, and it must be comforting to know she's safe. Well. Not safe. Driving the war rig isn't safe. It... it goes places, doesn't it, the war rig. Your sister must be very strong in order to make those trips. Strong, and. Huh. Your... your sister, you say. Drives the war rig...”

 

Her voice trails off, and Fenris holds her gaze. Tries to make her see, tries to will her to figure this out without him having to say it, to advocate for himself. And he's in luck; Merrill’s mouth opens in a soft O. And when Fenris nods, she slowly nods with him. Hesitant, but trusting.

 

Good.

 

Despite everything, he might have loathed biting down.

 

* * *

 

Merrill nearly shoots him the first time he shows her how to load a gun in the tiny sliver of moonlight reaching into their cage. Varania refuses to risk leaving arms with them after that, and the soles of Fenris' feet are marked with white tattoos, because Danarius believes the lie about how Fenris wanted to shiv Merrill, but missed and stabbed a small hole beneath the window sill instead.

 

It’s almost not a lie, because her tearful babbling and carelessness with something so important and dangerous make his blood boil.

 

Fenris spends two weeks in solitary confinement with no food or water, just Danarius’ voice re-indoctrinating him to what it means to be a Doll.

 

He’s the favorite and Merrill isn’t. It’s the only reason he walks out of that chamber and back into the cage, not into exile, every step making him clench his teeth as his feet remain bare despite the markings.

 

Fenris refuses to teach Merrill how to wield a weapon. She can’t be trusted with one.

 

* * *

 

“I hear dear Varania drives the war rig. Why, I had no idea she was your sister, my friend.”

 

Velanna is serving, and neither of the others can sleep, curled up on the wide bed they share. Fenris has an arm around Merrill, and Zevran practically draped half across both of them. The white haired elf dislikes touch, but he knows as well as any of them that they need it. It helps root them, helps them remember there are souls beyond Danarius out there who'd ever touch them, whether in comfort or pain. Danarius isn't the center of their world. Danarius isn't the only one who offers companionship.

 

By his side, Merrill tenses as Fenris glares at Zevran. She can’t be trusted with weapons, and apparently barely with information either. He’d intended to break this to the other two himself, needing to trust his own judgment in when they’d be receptive to the idea, with Merrill as backup should they balk. He’s walking a tightrope, and a wrong step will cost him not just his glimpse at freedom, but his sister and the strange little family he’s gained by giving up what little personhood he had.

 

Merrill twists a little to face Fenris better, eyes softly aglow in the semi-dark. “I wasn’t sure he’d let you back out. I thought I should involve someone else.”

 

It’s no good, he wants to tell her. If he falls, if they lose him, the plan crumbles anyway. Varania won’t be allowed to see any of the others – she may have once been a Doll, but Danarius doesn’t think that counts for much, and couldn’t care less about what bonds she forged with Velanna and Zevran and the late Seranni in her time here. He couldn’t care less about her blood relation to Fenris either, except Fenris is his favorite, and in general better behaved than ever thanks to the boon of regular visits.

 

Zevran’s eyes gleam in the dark. There’s mirth there, and something else Fenris can’t put a name to. Something that’s more obvious in Merrill’s eyes, something that’s died in Velanna’s gaze long ago, something he’s not sure he could spot in his own even if he tried. Even now. He's not sure he dares to let it surface.

 

“My sister drives the war rig,” Fenris confirms slowly, carefully. Measuring.

 

Zevran knows that the story about Fenris trying to shiv Merrill is one steaming pile of lies, but it's difficult to see what he makes of the slowly unraveling truth behind his ever present smiles and smirks. It infuriates Fenris as much as it promises to calm him somewhat – if the blonde elf throws in with them, he will never give anything away. Quite unlike Merrill. Fenris won't admit that he's more angry with himself for trusting her first just because she'd be easy to sway, than he is with her for almost ruining everything. Twice now.

 

And then Zevran laughs softly with bravado in his voice. Laughs death and danger in the face. Grasps Fenris' shoulder and squeezes. “Your sister drives the war rig,” he whispers in the dark, elated, and for the first time since they've known each other, Fenris doesn't feel like Zevran is faking his dark chuckles.

 

* * *

 

Varania needs to know how much time she has.

 

“Velanna is with child. Barely showing, but it won't be long.”

 

Fenris holds her gaze, which is more than unhappy. He understands. Even nine months wouldn't be a lot of time to prepare for this, to make the necessary arrangements. She's walking the tight rope right along with him. Velanna's pregnancy is what's driven Fenris to rush into this, and it puts an uncomfortable timer on it all.

 

And still... They have perhaps six months. Less if they don't want to wait until the latest possible moment. A time frame that spooks Merrill and excites Zevran. For Fenris... it causes something to coil deep in his guts, to tighten in his chest, to make the war drums of his heart beat to a slightly different rhythm. He can't quite explain it or even begin to name the feeling.

 

It's not as uncomfortable as he'd have thought.

 

* * *

 

Varania teaches him other means of survival these days.

 

He's left the guns behind him, knowledge that he passes on diligently. To Zevran alone, though, because Fenris just refuses to teach Merrill how to inflict even more damage. Not when he can't trust that damage to be aimed at those who will, without a doubt, pursue them.

 

It's difficult to teach Zevran without the actual item in his possession any longer, but at the same time there’s been a timer on that as well. The moment Danarius realizes the precious cargo Velanna carries for him, he'll tighten security on the cage, as if that alone will keep her and the child safe. It would have been difficult to keep the gun hidden with the War Boys all over the place, even taken apart and scattered all over, so Merrill's carelessness put an end to that only slightly earlier than Fenris hoped. Danarius' War Boys are broken fanatics, but Fenris refuses to mistake them for fools. He'd like to be underestimated, not underestimate those who wrong by him.

 

Still. They sit in the dirt when they can, making crude sketches in the soil. It tries Marethari's already slim patience when the pure white of their cloth is regularly stained brown. They claim Merrill instilled in them a love for what little grows there, something beautiful emerging from the dirt, and Marethari begrudgingly lets them indulge. Zevran snickers at the irony of the statement, calls the Dolls something beautiful emerging from the dirt as well, as Fenris fights the urge to fling soil at him. It's a wrong allegory anyway. They never left the dirt. They are the dirt, and he refuses to forget that. To forget harbors the danger of falling prey to Danarius' sticky sweet whispers.

 

A drop of sweat runs down Fenris nose now as he learns new ways to survive. Varania's leaning against the door, shoulders tense and face turned slightly to the side. She's listening for approaching steps. These days she's teaching Fenris to twist his body in new ways in order to gain strength and endurance. She'll wait until he wears Danarius' bruises from serving again before she'll teach him to fight someone off.

 

Just in case, Fenris tells himself, and tries not to picture lunging at Danarius. He can't afford to entertain such foolish notions, lest they seem like good ideas in the wrong moment. Just in case. And yet he's quite sure that nothing would give him pleasure the way bruising his knuckles on the magister's jaw would.

 

He's not quite sure how much of this he'll be able to pass on to the others. Velanna won't be in a shape to use her body as a weapon, and Merrill has so very little fight in her to begin with. As much as it irks him, he'll have to trust them to be able to defend themselves with guns, nothing more, should it come to that.

 

So he hopes it won't come to that.

 

Hope.

 

Fenris stills, eyes wide and focused on a crack in the floor, arms slightly bent and supporting the weight of his body in tandem with the balls of his feet.

 

_Huh..._

 

“You can give me more than this. We still have some time before anyone comes.”

 

Varania isn't a gentle teacher, can't afford to be. The ugly truth they're both aware of is that she's not teaching him all this so he can instruct the other Dolls, even though he tries to. She's teaching him because she sees little sense in this endeavor if he's not the one who makes it out with her. Oh, naturally, she wants to get the other Dolls out as well. But if she throws her life away once more, it will only be for her brother and because of her brother. Varania's heart is bitter, and has little room to love and loathe anyone but Fenris.

 

Fenris merely nods, still focused on the ground, and picks up his exercise once more, trying to force some muscle strength into his body.

 

There's an ache screaming in his limbs barely used for anything more straining than holding still or moving on the balls of his feet these past few years. There's dread in his stomach because all of this might yet go oh so very wrong. There's bitter bile in his throat, because the others are looking at him to lead them, while he can only look at Varania for that and hope within the carcass of her heart she still has more love for him than she has righteous fury. There's something restless in his chest, because he wants to move and never stop.

 

It's uncomfortable, all of it. And yet Fenris wonders if this is truly how it feels to hope.

 

* * *

 

If Velanna finds it curious that they all slip into the bathing chamber, not just Zevran, she doesn't comment. She's naked, and the insides of her thighs glisten, sticky and wet. Her hand keeps restlessly drifting to the tiny bulge of her stomach, growing ever so slightly with every passing day. A body betraying its secrets.

 

“He knows,” she bites when Zevran helps her step into the tub.

 

Of course, Danarius knows now. They don't eat well, because Danarius wants to keep them thin, but they're also far from starvation – there's little else but this that would make a female Doll's stomach swell.

 

Fenris crosses his arms and leans against the door, unaware of how much he looks like his sister in that very moment, how he adopts her role for this group – the protector, the way out, the savior, the leader, the one in control.

 

Zevran loosens the knot in which Velanna wears her hair, runs his fingers through the dusty blonde strands. “He must be delighted.” And though his tone is flippant and casual, they all know he's merely struggling to keep the mood light, to keep Velanna from slipping into despair.

 

Seranni died in child birth.

 

The child may be female.

 

The child may be unhealthy.

 

The child may look a touch too elven.

 

The child may die long before birth.

 

Velanna laughs, the sound too shrill. Merrill twitches, looks at Fenris and finds no comfort in the way his fingers tighten painfully on his own arm.

 

There's an air of tense helplessness and Velanna gives in to tears. Zevran cleans her as if he doesn't notice, though nothing could be further from the truth. They all ache for her and the life forced into her womb. Just another victim in this mess.

 

“I don't know what to do,” she admits when she's already clean, but not yet willing to emerge from the water. They rarely see Velanna so vulnerable, so small. The bitter loathing has drained out of her with every word of praise Danarius forced upon her tonight, the knowledge that for the next few months, she may well surpass Fenris in favor. A dreadful kind of honor, as they all know. Danarius will be in a good mood with a child on the way, and despite what he thinks, that never promises good things for his Dolls. And none of them know as well as Velanna what awaits her in pregnancy. Danarius has ideas for how to ensure the gender of his child. And if they don't work? Well, that's the Doll's fault, naturally.

 

Fenris knows that this is the moment. He feels almost guilty for using Velanna's vulnerable state to make sure she'll be open to the idea. Almost, but not quite. He joins the other two by the tub, crouches next to it and tangles his fingers in Velanna's hair to force eye contact. She starts at what she sees in his eyes, an expression that goes beyond anger or hatred or determination, and one she can't claim to have ever seen in his eyes. So he leans closer, makes her see it all.

 

“My sister drives the war rig.”

 

* * *

 

Velanna's stomach grows every day, every week, every month. Soon, walking will be a challenge for her. Danarius feels invigorated, and the Dolls all take his increasing demands with silently bowed heads and bent backs, hiding the gleams in their eyes. Hope hurts for every day it's not answered.

 

Varania's bare foot connects with the prominent bruise on Fenris' hip. He gasps, stumbles backwards and barely catches himself on the edge of the chair. She's ditched her heavy boots, knowing they'd leave markings they can't hide by layering them with what Danarius inflicted on her brother's body.

 

Fenris bares his teeth at her like a dog, like a wolf, and she smirks, pleased that he's still feral. Her lessons have ensured that becoming docile has never been an option for him, hard pressed as he is to remember his life far below these days. Right now he learns more than just to survive, though. He learns to fight back if need be, and there’s something exhilarating about that for both of them. Something wild and primal and satisfying. 

 

Fenris doesn't know how Varania's preparations are going, only knows that they're underway. He avoids asking too many details as much as she avoids the telling. The walls may grow ears at any time, and it wouldn't do to incriminate themselves beyond necessity.

 

“How's Velanna?” Varania asks, trying to grab at the flowing white cloth barely covering her brother. He moves better than she taught him, seems to almost flow around her outstretched arms only to tackle her to the ground. Both of them grunt, swat at one another until they can scoot back.

 

Fenris is faster on his feet, but less steady on account of last night's strain. Varania would feel bad for him, except she's funneling her energy into trying to get this mad plan underway. Her brother wipes at his mouth, debates his reply. “Heavy.”

 

Varania lunges forwards again, glad to see he's letting her attack now instead of rushing in. You can't rush War Boys – it just tires you out long before them. Fenris has the bruises to account for his sister teaching him that lesson. Now he's less foolish – he's in no condition to simply overpower most opponents. But what he can do well is let them come, use their size and strength and mad rush against them.

 

A fist connects with his ribs, and Varania smirks. “That's rude, Fenris.”

 

He lets her think she knocked the breath out of him, doubles over and lets her step in to finish him. Instead, he lunges, rams his shoulder into the soft part of her stomach. Varania lands on her back, stunned. Fenris stands above her, a weapon in the making. His edges already draw blood.

 

Manners are the least of his concerns. Still, when Varania pants and finally reaches up a hand, he grabs it with a genuine if small smile.

 

Varania is informed of her next supply run. She passes the message on to Fenris, who in turn whispers it into the ears of the three elves he's curled up with every night, hands on thighs or combing through hair. They'll move within the week.

 

Hope might not feel so bad when what he hopes for gleams on the horizon, ready for the taking.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look at this ending on a cheerful note. And we all know this will definitely stay nice like this in the future... no? 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Reviews and kudos are always welcome.


End file.
